John Nance - Lockout

“Dana, I’m going to read you a set of numbers. The question is this: If this is the code that the unit would take if it received the appropriate satellite broadcast, would it also work if typed in or sent by UHF relay?”

“No need, Paul. The code is the same regardless of how it’s delivered. Of course the MDCU entry method takes more preparation, but they’re in essence all the same, a string of numbers.”

“All I needed to know.”

With an ashen-faced Will Bronson and Jenny Reynolds watching, Paul Wriggle checked his watch, catching their eyes as he punched up the White House operator.

“Connect me again with the Israeli Air Force Command Post in Tel Aviv. This is an emergency.”

“How long do they have, General?” Will asked.

Paul Wriggle put his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to him as he glanced at the wall clock.

“Ten minutes, if that.”

St. Paul’s Hospital, Denver, Colorado (10:15 p.m. MST / 0515 Zulu)

“Mrs. Reagan, can you hear me?” Dr. Wellsley asked, leaning over Gail.

“She… uses her professional name. Hunt. Gail Hunt.”

The doctor glanced at Steve Reagan with a tiny flash of suspicion which paled instantly in the face of everything surrounding this patient.

“Gail Hunt? I need you to talk to me now. This is your doctor.”

From Gail’s point of view, there was another face hovering somehow in the sky overhead, above the meadow she’d been enjoying. She tried to make her mouth work, but as before, the lips moved without sound and she tried to clear her throat.

“Okay…” she said, taking a deep breath, the last of the dream state gone. She could feel herself being jolted awake, and the pain began to reassert itself.

“Gail, your husband, Steve, needs to speak with you urgently. Please concentrate and help him out, and then we’ll let you get back to sleep.”

Steve’s face joined the doctor’s, and she smiled back at him through the confusion.

My husband? Aw-w! We’re MARRIED! Why don’t I remember…

“Gail? Honey? I need you to help me get the latest codes you wrote that will release the control unit. You said they were in the central computer. I have my laptop here connected to our server. Can you guide me in?”

“We’re married?” she asked, smiling.

“Yes, sweetheart,” he answered, trying not to look stricken at the fact he was lying to her at a vulnerable moment, playing on her loyalties to get the information they needed, and about being married no less!

“ Why don’t I remember? You know how long I’ve wanted you? I’ve wanted you to make love to me for ages!”

Steve Reagan felt his face flushing a deep red, and for a few seconds the entire reason for the marital ruse got lost in a completely unexpected kaleidoscope of images.

He yanked himself back to the present and nodded quickly at the doctor.

“Gail, we’ve got a lot to talk about, but right now, General Wriggle needs you.”

“Is he here, too?”

“No, just me. Now, darling, please concentrate.”

The Kirya, Tel Aviv, Israel (7:20 a.m. local / 0520 Zulu)

The military leaders of Israel had gathered in their war room for a real-time update. Prime Minister Zamir was acutely aware of the possibility that he would soon have to make a split-second decision based on little more than guesswork, intelligence, and reports from their pilots. The moment was almost upon him.

“Proceed, please, General,” Gershorn said as he sipped a seriously strong cup of coffee.

“Here’s the tactical situation. We have six F-15s in formation with Flight 10, and they’re eight minutes from Iranian airspace. They’re in a solid cloud deck up to 38,000 feet, but it’s now daylight. The Pangia crew is aware of only two fighters. We did not want to frighten them. We have sixteen more fighters in stealth mode on the deck, largely below Iranian radar, ready to pop up as necessary. The crew still does not have control of their aircraft, and they have almost no fuel remaining.”

“And the Iranians?”

“Eight fighters in the air flying combat air patrol just on the other side, all, we’re sure, ready to engage.”

“Engage who?”

“Flight 10, although our six F-15s at 38,000 feet aren’t necessarily invisible.”

“And we believe they’re prepared to shoot down this jetliner?”

“Yes sir.”

“If I don’t decide to do it for them.”

Silence greeted the rhetorical question.

“And the strategic picture with their ballistic force?”

“At least six ballistic missiles in four Iranian locations fueled and on their respective pads. We have real-time monitoring by satellite… the Americans are locking arms with us on this… and we believe that only one of the missiles is nuclear equipped, but the others may be biological.”

“What is the rhetoric from Tehran?”

“Shrill to hysterical, all because of Moishe Lavi’s presence.”

“Is anyone still in charge in Tehran?”

“We can’t confirm that control has been shifted to the field. We do think that if Flight 10 was to get more than a few miles inside the border, whoever is in charge is going to be hard pressed not to fire because the presumption would be that, as idiotic as it sounds, our friend Lavi is riding a nuclear bomb meant for them.”

Gershorn referenced the main digital clock at the end of the room.

“Very well, bring up the live connection with our lead pilot.”

An aide scrambled to punch up the connections as someone else handed a receiver to the prime minister.

“The White House, sir.”

Gershorn looked at him in puzzlement but wasted no time saying hello.

“Mr. Prime Minister, this is General Paul Wriggle calling for the president. I know we have only a few minutes, but we now have what we think is the correct release code for that airliner, and we need your pilot to try again. Can you patch me to that pilot?”

The White House

Paul Wriggle waited for the connection with the Israeli fighter pilot flying formation with the imperiled Airbus A330 and re-read the code sequence Jenny had handed him: 62993178. How anyone could figure out something that arcane from an encrypted satellite message he did not understand, but in lieu of any word from Gail Hunt’s bedside, it was their best shot.

“We have a problem, General,” the Prime Minister was saying, jolting Wriggle back to the moment.

“What is it?”

“Our pilots are already being radar locked by Iranian fighters and they’ve got to defend themselves. They may not have time to transmit the code again.”

“This is a different code, sir. This will solve the problem if we can get the code transmitted on UHF.”

“I’ll do my best, General. We all will. Stay on the line with my aide. We passed the code to our pilot.”

Airborne, 38,000 feet, approaching the Iraq/Iran border

Patyish 21, the call sign of the Israeli major leading the flight of six F-15s accompanying the Pangia A330, saw his tactical radar register the hostile intentions of the Iranian fighters long before they could be in visual range. Against his better judgment and instincts, he took the few seconds to jot down the eight-number sequence before ordering his wingmen into the appropriate formation for engagement. There was no time to explain to the Pangia crew what was happening, but presumably the airliner’s captain had seen him pull away.

“Engaging enemy fighters,” was all he had time to say, and that was probably too much, especially since he couldn’t now recall with adrenaline levels rising whether he’d said it in Hebrew or English.